Deep Black (25 page)

52

A metal desk dominated the office, sitting precisely in the center of the small space. The desk itself measured no more than
a meter and a half across; its shallow bank of drawers barely accommodated a full pad of paper. Photographs and citations
had once covered the walls of the office, but now only their shadows remained, spots of cream against the dull yellow mass.
It had been years since the office was occupied; its last owner had reviewed farm reports for a defense secretary, his identity
now as obscure as his job had once been.

The bank of offices here was regarded as unlucky by some of the building staff, not because they were small and had limited
electrical and phone services, but because a jilted lover had tried to commit suicide by setting herself on fire in the hallway.
She had not succeeded, but even so, there were rumors that her ghost walked here at night.

The assassin did not care for such rumors, nor did he contemplate the size of the room or the simplicity of its furnishings.
He cared only for the window, which looked over the courtyard of the building where his target would be two days hence.

The room connected to the hallway via another room the exact same size. The hallway door and most of this outer room could
not be seen from the room with the window the assassin needed. This was a problem; it made it possible for someone to enter
the outer room and ambush him while he was at his post. The glass panel on the door made a dead bolt impractical; it would
be child’s play to cut through the glass. Keying the dead bolt would delay his escape, and besides, the glass panel was large
enough for someone to climb through.

Difficult, surely, but then, the assassin was himself an expert in difficult things.

There was a solution. From one of the two large bags he’d brought, he removed a large oval lock that looked precisely the
same as the others on the hallway. Five buttons made a circle around a central switch; the buttons had to be pressed in a
certain order to open.

Except that here, pressing any of the buttons would ignite a small C-4 charge in the lock. As would breaking the thin wire
tape he placed around the window. The only way to safely open the door was with the inside latch.

Door secured, the assassin went back into the room with the window he wanted. He climbed on top of the desk and sat with his
legs crisscrossed. He did not think about his task; the job was simplicity defined and did not require thought. He did not
think about his surroundings; they were not worthy of thought. He gave himself over entirely to thinking about his young son,
who was now five.

He had not seen the boy for nearly a year. As he stared now at the light patches on the wall, he reviewed the boy’s entire
life, or at least what he had known of it. He smiled at the mischief, berated himself for losing his temper three times. It
occurred to the assassin, as it had occurred to him before, that his outbursts of anger were his own fault and not the boy’s;
he regretted yelling at him. He could take solace in the fact that he had never spanked the little one in his entire life—though
perhaps many would see that as a personal flaw. The assassin did not mind such opinions; to him, being known as an indulgent
father was hardly a disgrace.

When his reverie reached the boy’s last birthday, the assassin began to laugh. He remembered how his son tried in vain to
push a large piece of cake into his mouth. The as sassin laughed, remembering the little boy’s tears when he finally realized
he could not have it all.

And then, for a moment, the assassin cried as well.

He sat on the desk a few minutes longer. Then he slowly unfurled his legs and began setting up his post. He would now think
of nothing except his mission for the next two days, or as long as it took.

53

Sherlock Holmes once used the absence of a dog’s bark to solve a crime. One of Bib’s teams had used the absence of communications
to provide another list of possible ringleaders of the coup, presenting it to Rubens on his return to Crypto City.

Unfortunately, the technique worked better on the page than in real life. The analysis pegged two possible military leaders
as the top choices. But neither had made the earlier lists of likely conspirators—Oleg Babin, the equivalent of an American
four-star general in the Far East command, and Ilya Petrosberg, a defense ministry official who had been with the Marines.

Rubens still favored Vladimir Perovskaya, the defense minister himself. So did the CIA and nearly everyone else who had an
opinion.

They could plan to freeze out all of the top suspects, but that would spread their resources. And there was always the problem
of inadvertently freezing out loyalists who might be useful.

Rubens stared at the paper on his desk. As so often in intelligence, the problem wasn’t so much getting information—there
were reams and reams of it. The problem was sorting through and analyzing it, then making the right guess on what to do about
it.

He had no choice. He’d freeze everyone on both the main list and this new one. In the meantime, he’d give Bib another push.
Had they looked for patterns in the use of ciphers or communications devices? Something had to stand out.

There were other developments. British MI6 was starting to make discreet inquiries. The damn Brits were always sticking their
toes in where they didn’t belong.

The direct line to the Art Room buzzed. Rubens picked up the phone.

“Boss, we got him,” she said. “Martin. Tommy and his guys are bringing him back.”

“I’m glad he’s alive,” said Rubens, though of course the exact opposite was true. However, if he had to have survived the
crash, it was far better that they had him than the Russians. It would be easier to assess the damage to the program with
his account.

“He claims he didn’t tell the Russians anything about Wave Three,” added Telach.

Even Rubens had an extremely difficult time stifling a laugh of derision. Of course Martin had been broken; it was absurd
to think otherwise. It was just a question of how much time the Russians had had to interview him.

“I will be down shortly,” he told Telach. “Have Karr and his people arrived in Moscow yet?”

“They’re en route.”

“Tell them to move more quickly.” Rubens hung up and glanced at his watch. There were seven minutes left until the scheduled
hourly update on Bear Hug. The update involved a secure conference call with the NSC, agency, and military leaders connected
with the operation. While he could take the call in the Art Room, he’d never make it through the security chamber in time.
He’d have to take the call here, then go downstairs.

He thought again of the things that needed to be cared for at his home. The African violets must be watered, and he should
change the thermostat and phone settings. He’d also want to put on the random lighting pattern that made it seem as if the
house were occupied.

Rubens picked up the gray phone and called home, where the house’s central computer system could be accessed through its phone
mail system. He hated using the gadget. The phone menu was exasperating, and not too long ago he’d managed to tell the lawn
sprinkler system to keep itself on 24/7; he returned home just in time to prevent a mud slide.

The machine answered on the first ring, indicating he had a message. Rubens hit his code to check. The machine greeted him
and then began playing a message from his cousin Greta.

“Hi, Bill, I hope you’re well. Call me, OK?”

It had been left a few hours before.

Call her?

She never, or almost never, called to chat. It had to be the investigation. Was something going to come out?

Was that what Brown had been getting at earlier?

There were no other messages. Rubens hung up, then punched his cousin’s number. The phone rang three times, four—he started
to hang up, not sure what sort of message to leave. He couldn’t tell her to call him here.

“Hello?”

“Greta?”

“Bill?” Her voice sounded tentative, very un-Greta-like.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes, I’m OK. Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“There’s going to be an inquiry into Congressman Greene’s death. There’s a special congressional committee.”

That was it?

“I had heard that, yes,” said Rubens. “Are you concerned?”

“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. I’m worried.”

Maybe she did do it, he thought. Perhaps she felt pressure to confess.

That would end the rumors and contain the potential damage. A good solution.

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” he said in his most soothing voice. “If you need anything, I’ll help any way I
can.”

“Thanks.”

“You expect to be called as a witness before the committee?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

Rubens thought of the scene playing on Fox. They’d cut from the live feed to the studio, where one of the commentators would
point out that her cousin was William Rubens, the most important spymaster since . . .

He was not a spymaster.

Most important since whom?

“They’re all grandstanding,” said Greta. “They have their own agendas.”

She stopped speaking, probably on the verge of tears. As Rubens thought of what to say next—as he considered what formula
might get her to gush out a confession—something odd occurred to him, something unprecedented.

He felt sorry for her.

“I feel like I’m in a vise,” she said.

“Washington is like that,” Rubens told her. He glanced at the small clock on his desk—it was almost time for the conference
call.

“Do you have anything to worry about?” he said. It was blunt and crude, but with the time constraints it was the only way
to proceed.

“What do you mean, William?”

“I mean that, unless you’re ashamed of something, I wouldn’t worry about all this,” he said, backtracking. “It’s nonsense.”

“I’m not ashamed of anything.”

“See?” Rubens pitched forward in his chair. Better to leave things in as positive a light as possible. “It’ll work out. Look,
Greta, I have to go. Do you need anything? Anything at all? Do you want to just talk?”

“No, thanks. Thanks. I appreciate your support.”

“It’s nothing. If you want to talk, let me know. I’m busy, but I’ll help. I promise.”

“It’s good to have family.”

Rubens hung up, feeling more guilty than he would have cared to admit.

54

Malachi Reese cursed and slammed on the brakes about halfway down the parking lot aisle in Lot 2D. Some stinking SOB had parked
in his spot. He threw the Honda into reverse without bothering to figure out whose car it was; security would do that, and
besides, he was running late as it was. The problem now was where the hell to park.

The handicapped section. There were sixteen spots in the lot, mandated by federal law—even though no one with a handicapped
license had clearance to park here.

Sixteen other scumbags had gotten there first. This really was a serious alert.

Malachi wheeled back, the heat shield in the Honda clattering as the engine jerked on its mounts. He almost parked on the
sidewalk but at the last moment saw a spot near the fence. He raced a Neon for it—
as
if
—leaving a good patch of rubber on the hot asphalt as he screeched in. Out of the car, he ran to the facility entrance, trotting
in place as the security guards—who had seen him leave only a few hours ago—wanded him and did the retina thing.

Inside, Malachi dialed his MP3 jukebox to the Clash’s “London Calling.” The hunt for a parking spot had made him feel particularly
nostalgic.

There was an extra set of security guards downstairs in the hallway leading to Conference Room Three, where he’d been told
to report. Malachi didn’t know them, which meant they dished major hassle over his MP3, making him put it under an X-ray and
then passing it through the bomb sniffer gate twice. By the time Malachi finally entered the briefing room—a small auditorium
with thirty seats, about twenty of them filled—they were well into the operational briefing, with an Air Force colonel Malachi
didn’t recognize talking about “the asset limitation list.” Malachi saw Terry Gibbs, one of the other platform jocks, sitting
in the second bank of seats. He slid behind him and poked him in the back.

“You’re big-time late,” whispered Gibbs.

“Some asshole parked in my spot,” said Malachi, pulling up the LCD video screen at the side of his chair. He flicked it on:
channel A featured a map of the greater Moscow area, with red stars all around it. Malachi recognized the stars as defense
installations without having to tap the screen for IDs.

“So like, I have to lose my day off because we’re going to bug the Russians again? Shit, Frenchie could have done it.” Frenchie
was an Air Force captain named Steven Parlus.

“Take off the earphones and listen to what the colonel’s saying,” said Gibbs. “Look around. You’re not flying the platform.
They want you on the Birds. Kelly’s unavailable and Duff asked for you. You missed Rubens.”

“The F-47s? Kick-ass.”

Malachi pulled out his ear buds and started paying serious attention. The F-47Cs, sometimes called Birds, were Mach 1.5–capable
UFAVs, or unmanned fighting aerial vehicles, capable of carrying weapons as well as “mission pods”—signal and image–capturing
gear. The remote planes were an outgrowth of Boeing’s successful F-45 program for the Air Force, which had provided considerable
pointers for the satellite-controlled NSA force. They generally worked in packs or flights of four and required several remote
pilots, along with a full relief team.

“This unit here is our prime concern,” said the colonel, tapping at a base northeast of Moscow. The legend identified the
unit there as 593, a fighter aviation regiment of MiG-35 “Super Fulcrums.” The MiG-MAPO next-generation fighter was based
on the MiG 1.42, itself a development of the MiG29.

“Yes,” said Malachi, as if he’d just hit a three-point shot at the buzzer. Those close enough to hear him snickered, and
the colonel giving the presentation stopped speaking and looked toward him.

“Is there a question, Mr. Reese?” asked the colonel.

“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Just saying we’re going to kick their butts.”

“That’s not the idea, Reese,” said General Tonka, standing up from the front row. Tonka was another holdover from Space Command.
“Russia is a member of NATO, an ally—no unauthorized dogfighting, no unauthorized anything.”

Tonka’s nickname was, naturally, Truck, though he was built like a slim walking stick. He’d flown combat in the Gulf. He gave
the room one of his best stares, then turned back to Malachi and pointed at him. “I know you’re a cowboy, Reese. Don’t fuck
up.”

“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Not on purpose.”

Two hours later, Malachi joined the flight crew in Control Bunker C, a separate underground facility with its own power supply,
ventilation system, and communications network. It linked to the Art Room via three separate dedicated lines, each of which
was always on. Malachi was second pilot, essentially the copilot in a four-man crew that also had a pilot, navigator/weapons
officer, and radar/ECM man. They could control from two to eight planes with the help of a bank of computers and a dedicated
satellite network. This could be augmented by J-STARS and AWACS aircraft; eventually, specially equipped Raptors and Strike
Eagles would also be able to tie into the network.

“Look who the cat drug in,” said Train—officially known as Major Pierce Duff. Train had cut his teeth as a young lieutenant
flying F-16s in the Gulf War and was regarded as one of the top remote pilots in the service. This was his team, and Malachi—or
“Mal,” as they sometimes referred to him—swept his torso down as a gesture of respect.

Kind of.

“He was probably making it with some ho in the elevator,” said Riddler, who worked the radar and ECMs, or electronic countermeasures.
Riddler’s real name was Captain George Thurston.

“Got me,” said Malachi. “Where’s Whacker?”

“Getting updated disks on the weapons sets,” said Train. “More programming code from your people.”

“Hey, I just work here. I’m not one of them,” said Malachi.

“Yeah, he’s a mutant alien form of fungus,” said Riddler.

“Actually, bacteria. I’ve evolved.” He slid into his station, which was dominated by a large flight stick. Most often the
remote planes were directed through verbal or keyboarded commands. While the pilots could take direct control via the stick,
the transmission delay could amount to more than two seconds, which made guiding the planes a difficult art. You had to think
ahead, anticipating not just the plane but also the control lag. Combat situations were especially treacherous.

Naturally, Malachi prayed for one.

“The planes are due to be off-loaded at No¨bitz, Germany, in four hours,” Train told him. “We have to be ready to take them
off the ground as soon as they’re fueled.”

Nöbitz was an airfield near Altenburg in the southern part of the country, once used by Soviet forces during the Cold War.
It had obviously been chosen for security purposes, not proximity to the target area—it was a good hike from there just to
the Russian border, let alone Moscow.

“We’re looking at a two-hour cruise to get on-station,” added Train. “We get there, we stagger back to tank. We’re looking
at a twelve-hour window at the moment.”

Malachi whistled. That was a long time for the robots to stay aloft, even with refueling. It would also be a considerable
strain for the crews.

“I want to run through a couple of mission bits on the simulator first,” explained Train, “practice ingress and egress and
at least one refueling. Then we break, get a real brief, come back, and do it.”

“Sounds hot,” said Malachi. “What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”

“Still to be decided,” said Train. “Probably AIM-9s, AM-RAAMs, and Paveways, full mix.” So equipped, the planes could be used
for either air-to-air or air-to-ground attacks.

“Hot dingers,” said Malachi.

“One more thing, dude,” said Major Duff, leaning over to Malachi’s station. “No music. For anybody.”

“Shit. Serious?”

“Serious. Whacker threatened to break out his Barry Manilow collection, and I just can’t live with that over the interphone
circuit for twelve hours.”

“Agreed,” said Malachi, pulling out his ear bud.